


one hundred portraits of you line the walls of my heart

by sapphicroisa



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Agatha is a bit of a bitch tbh, Art, Art History, Artistic Muse, Break Up, Dottie Jones I love you, Dottie Jones please marry me, Dottie and Phil are besties and very platonic, Dottie and agatha make art, Dottie is gay, Dottie is lonely, Dottie is sad, Dottie misses Agatha, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Gay, Gay Character, Lesbian Character, Loneliness, Longing, Magic, No Lesbians Die, Painting, Phil Jones is a sweetheart, harkanna rights but not really because this is more sad than rightsy, implied abandonment, lesbian in a hetero marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicroisa/pseuds/sapphicroisa
Summary: agatha and dottie draw each other every year until they don'ti wrote this in half an hour at 2am and i don't even know if it's in english at this point. it probably doesn't make sense but i kinda don't care :)
Relationships: Agatha Harkness/Dottie Jones, Agnes (Wandavision)/Dottie Jones, Dottie Jones/Phil Jones
Kudos: 8





	one hundred portraits of you line the walls of my heart

neither dottie nor agatha had ever been very artistically inclined, despite their introduction to one another taking place in a painter's studio, each providing muse for william hogarth.

dottie had always been fascinated by visual storytelling, the masterful art of narrative through stillness, but she was hopeless at creating shape in her own work. she admired the ability to create detailed, unique characters upon a page, denied control or free will over their own destinies. sometimes she felt the same. she was trapped, indefinitely, in the bounds of a loveless marriage to a man she knew nothing of, in which subservience and obedience were expected at all times, but she had never been obedient. at least not to a man.

agatha, however, hated art. she hated the slight distortion of a face upon a canvas, hanging on a wall in all of its imperfect glory. that she envied. imperfection, the very thing that she was persecuted for, punished by her own mother. she hated art.

and yet, somehow, the two ended up on opposite sides of their bed, paper and pencil in hand as they sketched the other. sketching became a tradition, a yearly occurrence for the two, that was then pinned up on their bedroom wall. their artistic ability never fluctuated, neither improving nor worsening as centuries passed them by.

she kept them in a box when they parted, slipped gently under her bed in westview, tucked away out of sight from her husband. phil knew that she did not love him, that she never had, and never would, that her heart was the possession of another, not himself, and for some reason, unbeknownst to dottie, he was fine with that. he loved her in a way she had never been loved. he loved her patiently, cowardly compared to the love she had shared with agatha once upon a time. they were best friends, more than anything else, phil and dottie, their marriage unexpected and almost unwanted until she found herself at the alter beside a man she could never be truly happy with, but it was enough for her. enough until her love returned.

under the faint yellow glow of her fingertips, in the dead of the night, she often found herself holding a drawing in her hand. she was gentle with them, careful not to damage what could be classed as priceless art pieces. the oldest dated back to 1744, ripped in the centre and yellowing around the edges. the paper had begun to disintegrate, falling apart in her hands, much like her heart.

she had waited for agatha. 220 years they had spent by each others' side, attached in every possible way. and then agatha left, in the mid 60s, without a word, and dottie never moved on. her heart was scribbled on tiny fragments of paper, hundreds of sketches, some more detailed than others, and when the last crumbled in the palm of her hand, she had a feeling that her agatha was not coming back.


End file.
